"Somehow I don't think so. Luca and Morgan would have thought of that. The fact that they are going ahead with a lease on the place would seem to indicate that they know damn well it isn't."

"That's logical." She put another file on his desk. "Dillon's medical report. Not good."

"Yes. Professor Bellamy spoke to me about it. That's why he's giving him a final examination this morning, then Dillon is coming round to see me."

"Is he finished, sir?"

"Looks like it, but that's not your worry, it's mine, so off you go to Scotland and see what you can find. In the meantime, I'll speak to the Prime Minister. A phone call at this stage will be enough, but I do think he should know what's going on sooner rather than later."

"You can dress now, Sean," Bellamy told him. "I'll see you in my office."

Dillon got off the operating table on which the professor had examined him. The flesh seemed to have shrunk on his bones, there were what appeared to be bruises under his eyes. When he glanced over his shoulder he could see, in the mirror, the angry raised weal of the scars left by the two operations that had saved his life after Norah Bell had gutted him.

He dressed slowly, feeling unaccountably weak, and when he put on his jacket the Walther in the special left pocket seemed to weigh a ton. He went out to the office where Bellamy sat behind his desk.

"How do you feel generally?"

Dillon slumped down. "Bloody awful. Weak, no energy, and then there's the pain." He shook his head. "How long does this go on?"

"It takes time," Bellamy said. "She chipped your spine, damaged the stomach, kidneys, bladder. Have you any idea how close to death you were?"

"I know, I know," Dillon said. "But what do I do?"

"A holiday, a long one, preferably in the sun. Ferguson will take care of it. As for the pain"-he pushed a pill bottle forward-"I've increased your morphine dose to a quarter grain."

"Thanks very much, I'll be a junkie before you know it." Dillon got up slowly. "I'll be on my way. Better see Ferguson and get it over with."

As he got to the door Bellamy said, "I'm always here, Sean."

Hannah, due at Gatwick in an hour, was checking the final details of her trip in the outer office. Loch Dhu was situated in a place called Moidart on the northwest coast of Scotland and not far from the sea, about a hundred and twenty square miles of mountain and moorland with few inhabitants. One good thing. Only five miles from Loch Dhu was an old abandoned airstrip called Ardmurchan used by the RAF as an air-sea rescue base during the war. It could comfortably accommodate the Lear. Four hundred and fifty miles, so the trip would take, say, an hour and a half. Then she would need transport to the Castle. She found the telephone number of the gate lodge and called Lady Katherine Rose.

The first person to answer was a woman with a robust Scottish voice, but after a while her mistress replaced her. Her voice was different, tired somehow and a slight quaver in it. "Katherine Rose here."

"Lady Rose? I wonder if I could come and see you on behalf of a client of mine?" and she went on to explain.

"Certainly, my dear, I'll send my gardener, Angus, to pick you up. I look forward to seeing you. By the way, just call me Lady Katherine. It's customary here."

Hannah put down the receiver and pulled on her coat. The door opened and Dillon entered. He looked dreadful and her heart sank.

"Why, Dillon, it's good to see you."

"I doubt that, girl dear. On the other hand, I must say you look good enough to eat. Is the great man in?"

"He's expecting you. Listen, I'll have to dash, the Lear's waiting for me at Gatwick and I've a fast trip to make to Scotland."

"Then I won't detain you. Happy landings," and he knocked on Ferguson's door and went in.

"God save all here," Dillon said.

Ferguson glanced up. "You look bloody awful."

" 'God save you kindly' was the reply to that one," Dillon told him. "And as I see the brandy over there I'll help myself."

He did, taking it down in one swallow, then lit a cigarette. Ferguson said, "Remarkably bad habits for a sick man."

"Don't let's waste time. Are you putting me out to grass?"

"I'm afraid so. Your appointment was never exactly official, you see. That makes things awkward."

"Ah, well, all good things come to an end."

He helped himself to more brandy and Ferguson said, "Normally there would have been a pension, but in your circumstances I'm afraid not."

Dillon smiled. "Remember Michael Aroun, the bastard I did away with in Brittany in ninety-one after the Downing Street affair? He was supposed to put two million into my bank account and screwed me."

"I remember," Ferguson said.

"I cleaned out his safe before I left. Assorted currencies, but it came to around six hundred thousand pounds. I'll be all right." He finished the brandy. "Well, working with you has been a sincere sensation, I'll say that, but I'd better be on my way."

As he put his hand to the door, Ferguson said formally, "One more thing, Dillon, I presume you're carrying the usual Walther. I'd be obliged if you'd leave it on my desk."

"Screw you, Brigadier," Sean Dillon said and went out.

The flight to Moidart was spectacular, straight over the English Lake District at thirty thousand feet, then Scotland and the Firth of Forth, the Grampian Mountains on the right, and soon the islands, Eigg and Rhum, and the Isle of Skye to the north. The Lear turned east toward the great shining expanse of Loch Shiel, but before it was the deer forest, Loch Dhu Castle and the loch itself, black and forbidding. The co-pilot was navigating and he pointed as they descended and there was the airfield, decaying Nissan huts, two hangars, and an old control tower.

"Ardmurchan field. Air-sea rescue during the big war."

It was on the far side of the loch from the Castle, and as they turned to land Hannah saw an old station wagon approaching. The Lear rolled to a halt. Both the pilots, who were RAF on secondment, got out with her to stretch their legs. The skipper, a Flight Lieutenant Lacey, said, "Back of beyond this, Chief Inspector, and no mistake."

"Better get used to it, Flight Lieutenant. I suspect we'll be up here again," she said and walked toward the station wagon.

The driver was a man in tweed cap and jacket with a red face, blotched from too much whiskey drinking. "Angus, Miss, her ladyship sent me to find you."

"My name's Bernstein," she said and got into the passenger seat. As they drove away she said, "You've no idea how excited I am to be here."

"Why would that be, Miss?" he inquired.

"Oh, my grandfather knew the old Laird during the war, Major Campbell. They served in the Far East together with Lord Mountbatten."

"Ah, well I wouldn't know about that, Miss. I'm only sixty-four, so all I did was National Service and that was in nineteen forty-eight."

"I see. I remember my grandfather saying the Laird had a batman from the estate, a Corporal Tanner. Did you know him?"

"Indeed I did, Miss, he was estate manager here for years. Went on a visit to his daughter in New York and died there. Only the other day that happened."

"What a shame."

"Death comes to us all," he intoned.

It was like a line from a bad play, especially when delivered in that Highland Scots accent, and she lapsed into silence as he turned the station wagon into huge, old-fashioned iron gates and stopped beside the lodge.

Lady Katherine Rose was old and tired and it showed on her wizened face as she sat there in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her knees. The drawing room in which she greeted Hannah was pleasantly furnished, most of the stuff obviously antique. There was a fire in the hearth, but she had a French window open.

"I hope you don't mind, my dear," she said to Hannah, "I need the air, you see. My chest isn't what it used to be."